Chapter Fifteen

“Poor fool, he makes me laugh!” Carlotta trumpeted. It was opening night, and the crowd was even larger than it had been for Hannibal. Even the coveted Box Five was full of people expecting to hear this new sensation, Christine Daae.

Catherine shook her head. If Firmin would only follow her advice! She knew something was amiss, but he insisted, “I'm the manager, you're the ballet mistress. Get back to your pas de deux!” Catherine sighed from her place offstage. Was this how their marriage was going to be? I do my work, you do yours?

Still, Carlotta's voice sounded better than it had in months. Pregnancy became her. Even through the stage make-up that she was smothered in, there was a healthy glow to her face. Her eyes were afire with a new look, one of joy and peace, despite her rocky relationship with the baby's father. And she had the tiniest bump of a stomach that disappeared completely when she was corseted.

Catherine turned her attention back towards the stage, nervously glancing at the rafters from time to time, anticipating the moment when Erik would burst from the place he was concealed in.

Meanwhile, on stage, Christine watched as Carlotta performed her vocal acrobatics, waves of jealousy surging through her. This was her performance, Raoul was expecting her! The crowd was restless, wanting her, not stupid Carlotta! She couldn't believe that her mentor Madame Giry was marrying someone who would demean her to a silent role! Not only that, but it was a role that forced her to actually touch Carlotta! The very thought made her want to dash away and wash away Carlotta's bratty germs. But, alas, the show must go on!

“Did I not instruct that Box Five was to be kept empty?” a voice echoed throughout the theatre. Blood pounded through Christine's veins. She knew that voice, knew it well! Ha, take that, Monsieur Firmin!

“He's here! The Phantom of the Opera!” Meg cried from her place across stage. She had not been thrilled when Catherine had announced that Firmin gave her her role back, but she was enjoying the attention now!

“It's him,” Christine whispered, her mind wandering to that night long ago. His voice was the same, but was the rest of him?

“Your part is silent, little toad!” Carlotta cackled.

“A toad, Madame?” the voice spoke again, slightly frustrated and slightly amused. “Perhaps it is you who are the toad.”

Christine watched Carlotta walk offstage rolling her eyes. She tapped her maid on the shoulder, and the flustered old woman turned and grabbed the spray, aiming it rather carelessly at Carlotta's mouth. “Why you always spray ona my chin, ah?” she squawked, flouncing back on stage. “We's good, Maestro decca moire.” The music began again, and she picked up where she left off. “Poor fool, he makes me laugh.” The next note never came out. In its place, was a horrible, unearthly croak.

The crowd went wild, as Carlotta's cheeks flushed a bright crimson. She tried to ignore the laughter, but it wouldn't stop. She watched Andre and Firmin leave their box, and her paled, if that was possible through the white stage make-up. “Mada!” she cried in a moment of sheer embarrassment. She stepped back, fluttering her fan in front of her face.

“The curtain!” Firmin cried, rushing on stage. The crimson drapes closed with the managers in front of it just in time to keep the people from seeing Carlotta fall back onto Christine, nearly causing her to topple under her weight .

“Get her off of me!” Christine hissed to the frightened actors and actresses, trying to shove Carlotta away. Carlotta stirred slightly, but slumped down again.

“Carlotta!” Meg leaped across stage. She slapped her cheeks mercilessly, rousing her. Taking her hand, they left the stage, as Firmin reached back and grabbed a panting Christine. He pulled her on stage to wild cheers, just as he announced that after the ballet, the role of the countess would be filled by Miss Daae.

Christine sucked in her breath as he thrust her back behind the curtain. “Madame Giry!” she summoned the ballet mistress to her, “Come, I must change. I have only until after the ballet is through!” Catherine hurried after her, unaware that directly above their heads, Joseph Buquet's curiosity was getting the best of him, and he would soon know the true meaning of the phrase “curiosity killed the cat.”

They dashed to Carlotta's room. Christine ignored the red rose that she knew lay on the vanity and hurried to strip down to her corset and hosiery. Catherine tightened her stays until she could barely breathe, but her waist was a perfect seventeen and a half inches in diameter. She had just slipped a soft pink chemise over her frilly underskirt when screams from the theatre reached their ears.

Catherine knew immediately that Erik had done something, and that Christine was potentially in danger. “Christine, find Raoul and flee. Run! The Opera Ghost has surely been quenching his thirst for blood again.” Catherine grabbed a thick red cloak and wrapped it around Christine, embracing her before shoving her out the door. Her gaze fell on the rose, and her heart leaped. Swallowing, she too ran out, knowing that Firmin would be looking for her.

“Catherine!” Firmin caught her by the waist as he neared the fleeing woman. He held her trembling body close to him, nuzzling her braided hair. “Thank God you're alright,” he whispered, feeling her quake against him. She buried her head in his chest and cried, afraid of what might've happened. A quiet voice inside her told her to run some more, that someone needed her, but her heart wouldn't listen.

“Catherine,” he groaned, backing out of the embrace, “More people need you. Your ballerinas need you. Please, Catherine, you are not making this easy for me.”

“Just hold me, please, just hold me!” she whispered, taking a step towards him. He reached his arms out to her, and she was about to fall into them when Meg flashed past them, crying so hard that it seemed she was hyperventilating. Catherine sent Firmin a wide-eyed look of mixed fear, longing, and apology before she rushed after her daughter.

“Meg!” she cried, hurrying down the hall to the ballet dorms where Meg threw herself on the bed, heaving sobs from the pit of her soul. Catherine flew onto the bed, her hair disheveled from the chase. She gathered her daughter into her arms and rocked her gently, smoothing her hair and whispering to her soothingly. “Meg, what happened, my dear? Shh, it's alright. Talk to me, Meg. Has someone hurt you?” No response.

Catherine felt her daughter stiffen, heard her swallow, then continue sobbing. She stroked her back, humming gently, and old song that Erik used to sing to her. It didn't help. Meg stood and bolted to the lavatory, hurling uncontrollably into the bucket.

“I warned you about this when you were little,” Catherine said, joining her and pulling back her blonde hair. She leaned over the girl, sometimes rubbing her back, sometimes rocking gently as Meg vomited repeatedly. The sounds of choking up bile replaced all others, until at last all that was left was the stench and Meg's pitiful wailing, much like the mewing of a very tiny kitten. “My poor child.” Catherine wiped her mouth with a nearby towel, then helped her to stand. He knees were weak, and she nearly collapsed, but her tiny frame was easy for Catherine to support. She helped her back to the bed, where she loosened her tight corset. Meg breathed deeply, nearly afraid to speak.

“I'm sorry, Mother,” she mumbled. Catherine half smiled, half frowned.

“You have to apologize?”

“I just...” she started to sob again, “It's so hard! I.... I'm..... I'm having his baby, Andre's baby, and Raoul won't marry me! He thinks..... I've been unfaithful! So he's marrying Christine, I just saw and heard. They'll probably announce it at the New Year's Bal Masque....” The tears started to pour in torrents down her face again, and she leaned into her mother's open arms. “I love him so!” she whispered, her voice muffled in her mother's breast.

“I know, Meg. I know.”

Chapter Fourteen

It was several days before Doctor Habsburg could come look at her thigh, by which point it was no longer neccesary. Raoul insisted, however, so Meg warily bared her leg. The doctor took a brief glance at it, kneaded it, then scoffed, “Is that what you brought me here for, Monsieur le Vicomte?”

Raoul nodded sheepishly. “I assume there's nothing wrong?”

“No, nothing in sight. I take it this is your wife?”

“Wife-to-be.”

“Well, seeing as there was nothing for me to really do, I'll let it go free of charge.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I'll see you out.”

“Wait, Monsiuer!” Meg interjected. She motioned to Raoul, “Please, could I speak to the doctor alone?”

Raould looked at her nervously, then nodded and left. The doctor returned to her bedside. “What can I do for you, Mademoiselle?”

She breathed deeply, a little scared. She lifted the skirt off of her other leg, revealing the one bruise that still remained. “About three weeks ago, I was... accosted. Beaten and taken advantage of, if you will. I was expecting to menstruate sometime that week. It never happened. I'm afraid I'm... well... it's always been so regular before, even when I was young.”

“You're afraid you're expecting?”

“Yes, Monsiuer.” She burst into tears, not even trying to sniff them back. “I just don't know what Raoul will do when he finds out!” she wept . Without realizing what she was doing, she leaned into the doctor's shoulder and wept into it.

“Meg?” Raoul called from outside the closed door. He heard her sobbing, and burst through onto the stiff doctor and Meg, crying like a baby on his shoulder. “What's going on here?” he bellowed, pulling Meg up and shaking her soundly. He let go, and she collapsed on the ground, gasping for air. She looked up in time to see his fist fly at the doctor's face, and she was transported back in time.

I must get away! I must go free, with my virginity in tact. Let me go, you god-damn son of a bitch! Please, I want to be pure for Raoul! Oh, god, don't hit me! Please, don't hit me! Oh, I feel sick. Someone, help me!

“Help, stop!” she screamed, her eyes rolling back in her head wildly. She stretched her arms out, every muscle tense, every finger staright and rigid as a nail. She screamed again, clawing at the air before her.

“You're a bloomin' lunatic!” Raoul cried. “Get away from me, you slut!”

“She was raped!” the doctor interjected, “She's pregnant, don't hurt her!”

“I'm not going to touch her. She's a disgrace to me and the de Chagney name, and I will not have anything to do with her. I won't marry her, and I won't believe her stupid rape baby story, either!” He spit towards her , then whirled and stomped out of the room.

Doctor Habsburg stood dizily, and followed in his path, leaving Meg sobbing on the bed. Her lamentations brought an unseen visitor to the room, and just as she fell to the ground unconcious, her father swept her into his arms and whisked her away to his lair, cradling her as he had cradled the last woman to join him in his underground home, when Christine had debuted in Hannibal months ago.

“My daughter,” Erik whispered, watching her sleep in the bedchamber. He had a daughter, and she was just as beautiful as her mother or more so. There was no sign of a disfigurement, unless you count the oddly-shaped mark on her breast. It looked tragically like a mask, a white, half-mask, much like the one that he wore on a day to day basis.

She stirred, and he jerked the hand that he was holding onto. He was not used to her, and he was half afraid that she would wake up and see him, and run in fear (who would ever guess that HE was afraid of anything?). She stirred again, and moaned softly. His heart leaped. His daughter was here, with him, in his private hell. And, unlike with her mother, she was not guarding him, but he gurading her. He was afraid that she would not be respected by Catherine's new husband, and that she would be cast out when everyone found out about her illigitimate child.

Catherine's husband. That should've been him, not Firmin. He was not handsome, but neither was Firmin, and at least he could sing! He had taught Catherine to sing and dance better than Madame Guidichelli, and he had made Christine the star that she was with the crowd of theatre-goers. He could make anyone anything, as long as they trusted him with their voices, and he knew that he could please any woman in bed if they gave him half a chance! But they were too afraid of him, too scared that he might do something horrendous to match his hideous face.
Jenny de Chagney, the late Vicomte de Chagney's aunt, had been one such woman, who had not refused him in bed as an adult, but in the cradle as a child. She was his mother, but she refused to care for him at all, and at age three he ran away to live on the streets of Paris. He took a new name, one that went well with his new feelings of freedom and authority. Erik, meaning all-powerful in Scandanavian. The “le Fantome” part came later, after he'd been at the Opera Populaire for a year or two. Too bad she didn't know what he had become. Then she might've been proud of him.

In the bed, Meg stirred and yawned. She opened her eyes, and looked at him quizically for a moment. He held his breath, praying please, don't let her be afraid. Let her love me for me. Please, God, don't let her scream and run away. Her eyes grew wide with fear, and she opened her mouth to let out an ear-piercing scream that rivaled the height and decibal level of Carlotta's top notes. He cringed, as she tore her hand from his grasp. “Who are you?” she shrieked. He reached out to touch her, to comfort her. “Don't touch me! Where am I?” By now she was standing on the bed, the crimson sheet wrapped around her as if to conceal her body from him.
“I'm not going to hurt you, dammit!”

She shivered. “How do I know that? Where am I, how did I get here, and who are you? Tell me! Then tell me how to get out of here!”

“You are in my bedchamber under the opera house. I brought you here, and I will not hurt you. I am your father, the Opera Ghost, and it's time you know me for who I really am, not for the petty fears of those above, Catherine and Christine included. The only reason I would hurt any of you would be if you disobey me. And there is no need to run, you can't get out without me. Catherine has had you for fifteen and a half years, and it's my turn now.”

She gasped. “I have no chance?” He shook his head. “Then you are just as bad as they make you out to be! I suppose you know everything about me then?”

“Of course. I've watched you since you were seven! You were engaged to marry Raoul de Chagney, that infamous hog of a man, and he cut you off when he found out that you are now pregnant by rape. Rape by Andre.”

“Let me go,” she commanded coldly. “I don't want anything to do with you. My mother loves me, and that's enough. I don't want you, I don't need you, and there's no chance that I ever will.”

“Everyone needs me. Without me, this opera house would crumble to bits under the less-the-beneficial management of Messuirs Andre and Firmin.”

“I want to leave.”

“You will stay here with me. Forever!”

“NO!” she cried, her breath coming quickly. “I will not. I never want to see you again, hear from you again. I never want you to interrupt my life or my mother's life ever again. She is happy, and with her help I will be too.”

“You are as ungrateful as Carlotta.” he snarled. “Fine. You may go.” He picked her up like a ragdoll and tossed her in his gondola, shoving off. “Climb the staircase at the other side of the lake, then forget the way.” He shoved the gondola away, and it floated until the glow from Meg's angry eyes could no longer be seen through the mist.

Chapter Thirteen

It was several days before Meg was strong enough to return to the Opera Populaire. Christine, Catherine, and later Carlotta took turns caring for Meg, protecting her. It was hard for Meg to accept Carlotta. Seeing the deaths of Margrete and her then unborn child had branded her mind and heart, had put a new fear of pregnancies and labor into her soul. Knowing Carlotta's secret frightened her, and knowing that, like Margrete, Carlotta had already suffered a miscarriage put her in an even more nervous state. Hearing Carlotta talk of her new feelings, of her cravings, of the anticipating quickening of her son (she was sure that Piangi's first child would be a boy), among other things, made Meg's heart quicken, fearing that at any moment of any day, Carlotta, like Margrete, would unexpectedly go into labor and lose both her life and her baby's. Eventually, however, she was able to talk to the prima donna.

The day of Meg's return was only a week from the opening night of Il Muto, and everyone was busy getting ready. Elizabeth Auguste was practicing her role in “Shame, Shame, Shame,” since the managers refused to obey the Opera Ghost's orders to put Meg in the lead ballet role. Carlotta and Christine were back to the age-old rivalry on stage where they were trying to rehearse.

“Does she 'ava to touch me?” Carlotta shrieked, shoving Christine's hand from her jeweled bodice. Christine rolled her eyes.

“Carlotta, you are not God's gift to mankind. Just to Piangi,” she scoffed.

Carlotta gasped. “You little brat! I ama so sick of 'earing dat name! I 'ate 'im, so leave 'im out of dis!”

“I'm sorry, Carlotta,” Christine draweled, pretending to bow in fear before her. Although Carlotta and Meg were getting along, Carlotta still couldn't tolerate Christine, and Christine returned the sentiment.

Meg insisted on coming out to watch the rehearsals, and thought Catherine resisted her pleas at first, Meg finally won. “Go back to your ballerinas, Mother, and for god's sake let me dance!” she cried. Catherine threw her arms in the air and spun out of the room.

Meg hurried to dress, noticing that her bodice seemed a little bit tighter than usual. She dug her pointe shoes out from under her bed, and gently put them on. She stood gingerly on her toes, aware of how weak her ankles would be after not dancing for thirteen days. A smile crept onto her face, and she turned a graceful pike turn, her pointed foot to her other knee.

She threw caution to the wind, casting her arms out and pulling them in again to numerous pirouettes and pikes, finishing by leaping out the door in a very grand grande jete. It was so grand, in fact, that she could do no more. She thudded to the ground with a crash, and could not move. “Umm, help?” she whispered in pain, rubbing the spot in her thigh where she had just pulled the muscle nearly in two. She swallowed a groan as she massaged it. “Mother? Christine? Anyone? Help?!”

Around the corner, Raoul de Chagney was on his way to watch the rehearsal-turned-catfight on stage. Christine always did know how to make Carlotta angry. Even as a child, she had smirked and prodded at Carlotta until the diva could resist no more and went to tell someone in authority that she was being laughed at.

Then there was Meg. Meg, with her mother's body and talent, but obviously her father's temper. She'd never paid much attention to him as a child, so he'd never really noticed how beautiful she was. Her hair the color of spun gold framed skin of ivory, set with sapphire eyes and ruby lips. Unlike Christine, who was a mere three inches beneath him, Meg's head seemed like it would just touch his shoulder, her waist the perfect height to wrap his arms around.
They were both so beautiful, Christine with her tight chestnut curls and warm complexion, Meg with her glassy eyes and perfect figure. He knew he could easily get away with marrying either. But which? Christine was Christine and Meg was... “Meg?” he questioned, startling the injured ballerina. She jumped and grimaced noticably.

“Monsieur, I...”

“What are you doing, Meg?”

“I was... stretching, Monsiuer le Vicomte. Uh, yes, stretching!” Please don't some any closer, Raoul. Get Mother or Christine, but don't touch me!

“Shouldn't you be rehearsing?”

“I... well... the truth is, Monsiuer, I pulled my leg, and I can't move. I'd be much obliged if you'd get my mother for me... Madame Giry...”

“Meg, don't call me Monsieur,” he whispered. “My name is Raoul.”

She gulped, knowing what was coming. Her stomach starting to churn, her nerves growing raw. Her heart pounded, and her mind told her run, run, run. “Please get my mother.”

“Nonsense.” He scooped her up into his arms and held her close, caressing her hair. Her every thought was to resist, but she knew that no one could find out how afraid she now was, lest someone like Buquet find out, or worse, Andre himself. So she buried her head in his neck and sobbed gently. “Meg, what's wrong?” he murmured.

She was caught. Did she lie and dare suffer the consequences, or tell the truth and be labeled both coward and slut for her whole life? “Meg? Have I done something wrong?” He sounded concerned, but could she trust him? He must have girls all over the country!

“I... you love Christine, don't you?”

He sat her on a bed and knelt before her. “That depends. Do you love me?”

“I...”

“Because I've been deciding this for a long time.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small velvet-covered box. “I need a wife to provide heirs, and it might as well be one I can be friends with, like you.”

Meg's heart beat a million messages a minute. Run, he just wants your body. He just needs heirs. Let Christine deal with the pain of childbirth. Mother never liked him anyway.
Oh, bother Mother. He's so damn handsome! But what if he's as cruel as....

No, don't think of him. It will be a good match with lots of money and lots of clothes and chocolate and love and children and...

“Oui, Monsiuer Raoul.”

“Yes?” he choked. She nodded and eyed the box. He chuckled and opened it, revealing a sparkling marquis diamond set in silver. It was attatched to a delicate silver chain. “Wear it as a sign of our promise. This will prove that with you instead of Christine, like the stupid managers think.” Meg wanted to reject it, her soul felt bruised. I'm just being used. He doesn't care. She forced a smile, and he stood to kiss her gently.

“Come now, let's see about your leg. Shall I fetch a doctor?” She barely managed to nod, her throat constricting with tears. He left, blowing her a kiss, and it was only then that she allowed herself to break down and wail.

Before I forget, the dedication: To my "sister," Lyssa. Yes, we fight. But we always end up friends again, and no matter how far apart we get, I will always cherish the majority of our times together. Love ya, sis!